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He took care of the boys, whom Kelsey had driven to Zara’s when she couldn’t reach Tyler after I collapsed. Tyler also cleaned, cooked, and even bathed the kids and read them bedtime stories.
I once overheard him on a call with my mother, in tears. His voice cracked in a way I had never heard before, raw with helplessness.
The question hung in the air like a confession, a glimpse into the weight he carried but rarely showed.
But I was still determined to stick to my promise to divorce him. When I started feeling better, some of my memories returned. I recalled trying to call Tyler before collapsing, and when he didn’t answer, I managed to write the note before everything went black.
So, when I was finally stable enough, I made my filing. I did not yell or make accusations. I had said all I needed to in that note. The silence between us was heavier than any argument could have been.
Tyler did not protest. He did not make excuses. His shoulders sagged as though the fight had already drained from him long before this day.
He just nodded and said, “I deserve this.”
The words landed without resistance, flat and final, as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times in his head.
Over the next few months, he showed up—not only with words, but with actions. He attended every prenatal appointment, brought the boys their favorite snacks, and helped with school projects. Tyler texted daily, asking how I felt, if I needed anything, and if he could drop off groceries.
When we went for the 20-week ultrasound and the technician smiled, I looked over at him. For the first time in years, his face was unguarded, stripped of bitterness or pride. “It’s a girl,” she said.
The sound was quiet but unrestrained, as though that single truth had undone every wall he’d built around himself.
When our daughter was born, he cut the cord with shaking hands. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. After so long, I saw the man I had fallen in love with years ago. He was not the one who mocked and belittled, but the one who used to sing to our boys at bedtime, the one who held my hand when I was scared.
But I had learned not to mistake apologies for change.
Months passed. Tyler continued therapy. He stayed present, showed up, and though he never asked for a second chance, I could see he hoped.
Sometimes, when the boys ask if we’ll ever all live together again, I look at them and wonder. Their eyes carry a hope I’m afraid to touch, fragile as glass in my hands. Love can be jagged. It can break and still hold form. And it can tear, heal, and leave scars.
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